by Haley Oliver
As I head in the direction of St. Christine's Shelter and Soup Kitchen, my hand absently returns to the side of my bag tapping the spot where the memo rests, securely tucked away.
St. Christine's Shelter and Soup Kitchen used to be an old Chinese takeout joint. You can still see the imprint of the red hanzi characters behind the soup kitchen's dimly glowing sign.
"Hey there, Miss Gorgeous."
I jump and then see Sam sitting outside the doorway to the shelter. "Hi there, Sam. You startled me." I reach for the older gentleman's hand and assist him to his feet. "Why haven't you gone in for dinner yet?"
"I was waitin' fer my date." He winks at me.
"Well, I suppose I'll have to do until someone better comes along," I tease.
"Aint no one better'n you, Miss Amanda." His watery brown eyes twinkle as he smiles a nearly toothless grin.
I link my arm through his and lead him into the shelter, helping him find a spot at one of the old, weathered cafeteria tables. The bench seat wobbles beneath him and I reach to steady his frail form before he falls. "Maybe we should try another one, hmm, Sam?"
After getting him situated with a plate of bread and a bowl of soup, I wander into the kitchen and grab an apron. The dishes are piled high in the sink and a woman in a matching apron works behind me. "Another bench is broken, Mary," I mention as I start running the water to fill the old, battered, metal sink.
Mary, the director of the facility and a woman who I have known for several years, sighs heavily. "We just don't have the money these days. It's hard enough to stretch the dollars we get to keep the food going. The current budget will stretch another three or four weeks tops, and then…I just don't know what we're going to do."
My shoulders slump. "I'm working again. I'll try to pick up a few items as soon as I get paid, or drop a donation."
I feel Mary's hands squeeze my shoulders. "You're a good one, Mandy, but I'm pretty sure you alone can't keep us afloat."
I grimace and pat her hand with my wet gloved fingers. "I know, but every bit helps. We'll find a way. Don't give up hope, Mary."
"Never do." I watch as she grabs a broom and heads out to sweep the dining area.
I make a mental note to volunteer more of my time after work and on weekends. There has to be something that can be done. I'll write the city and see if there are any funds, maybe check to see if there is available grant money somewhere, if I can find time this week. Make time, I chastise myself as I continue to scrub dishes. It will be heartbreaking to see so many of the people that depend on the shelter left without. For some, this is the only meal they get. But Mary is right. I barely make enough doing temp work to afford my shoebox studio apartment. How can I afford to fund a soup kitchen?
As I scrub an industrial-sized serving tray, I close my eyes and offer up a quick prayer—for a miracle.
* * *
My shift at the soup kitchen proves to be the perfect distraction from work, and from my deceit of Owen Ridgemont. The news of the shelter's imminent closing has weighed on me so heavily that I've completely forgotten about the mess I made by pretending to be someone else.
Back at my apartment, I showered, changed into my pajamas, visited my neighbor to borrow baking powder, whipped up a batch of chocolate chip cookies from scratch, and now that I can't put it off any longer, it's time to read Owen's memo.
I sit on my bed rubbing Lucy's belly while my purse yawns on the comforter in front of me.
Finally, I force myself to just pull the darned thing out. There's no turning back now, sister.
It's not what I expect to read. At all.
I had assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that you'd heard of me. (I'm sure Google would be helpful in this instance.)
"Really!" I don't know whether to be amused or offended by his sign off…all on Nicole's behalf, of course. I didn’t expect the hint of an attitude, and it throws me. Maybe my nicely worded rejection stung him—maybe his ego is more fragile than I anticipated. But is he really reproaching me on the subject of his wealth? Is he teasing? Oh no…is he flirting? My last memo to him was supposed to put the kibosh on that, take the wind out of his sails and the steam out of his engine—all in the nicest way possible, of course.
He's right about one thing: I really haven't done my due diligence. Everything I know about Owen Ridgemont I've learned from Jane Fox and the other girls in the secretarial pool. It seemed unimportant. Whoever he is, and whatever he may be worth, I always intend to do my job to the best of my ability. Does he really think a few extra zeros ascribed to his name are going to change Nicole's answer?
I'm bristling now, on behalf of this fabricated person. Owen must have a really low opinion of the Fifth-Floor Blonde. But, if so, why ask her out in the first place?
I scan the note again, then flip open my laptop and do as the memo suggests. I type Owen Ridgemont into my browser. As I scan the search results, my jaw slackens and my eyes bug out of my head. I read and reread. Owen Ridgemont isn't just another midlevel executive working temporarily at Sway International. His assets are equal to if not greater than the Sways, maybe even all the Sways combined. I whistle at the numerous zeros behind the man's estimated net worth. I stop counting once a million crosses over into a billion.
I look up at the ceiling and mouth, "Thank you, Lord."
The oven timer goes off, and I sprint into the kitchen to pull out my procrastination cookies, but I'm back in a flash to write my response. I know how to nip this thing in the bud…and maybe, just maybe, I can kill two birds with one stone.
Dear Owen,
I played stalker today and Googled you. What I found increased my admiration for you tremendously. I read that you were born into a family of modest means, orphaned at a young age, and raised by your grandmother. (I'm very sorry to hear about her passing.)
What was most impressive was your estimated net worth. You've climbed quite a mountain to reach your success.
According to Wikipedia, you're also a philanthropist, so I'm going to go out on a limb here and ask you for a donation to a worthy cause.
I volunteer at a homeless shelter and soup kitchen on the Lower East Side. The place is called St. Christine's, and it is near and dear to my heart. Unfortunately, they've been in dire straits lately and without help will have to close their doors in a matter of weeks. I know the administrator personally and can assure you that every dollar of any donation you’re willing to make will be spent frugally and wisely.
I hope you'll consider helping.
Ha!
I sit back and reread over my response, wagging my pen like a seesaw between my fingers. "Good…" I mutter to myself. "Actually, I'm kind of getting the hang of this!"
Never mind that the letters are from me and in no way reflective of the real Nicole's voice. I didn't even try to embody the blonde with this last reply. I finish by adding her name, but in my mind's eye, it's my own. "Your admirer, Amanda," I whisper, and then I seal up the words, both written and whispered, ready to be delivered with his mail again the next morning.
That night, I fall asleep with a smile on my lips and awake with an equally bright smile in my heart.
It's a glorious autumn morning that promises to be warm and sunny. I'm still feeling quite lucky about the turn of events of the previous evening, and I choose to wear a filmy, flowy dress, rather than the austere "office attire" that I'd worn the day before. Nothing inappropriate, of course. I have a bounce in my step, so much so, that Jane makes a comment on our morning elevator ride.
"New shoes?"
I looked at her and then down at my shoes. "Nope."
"Ahh, then it must be a new guy." She waggles her brows. "Lucky you."
I blush and imagine I can feel the heat of the pink note scorching a hole in my purse. I shake my head. "No, just in a good mood today. It's a glorious day."
Jane smiles, and I suspect she isn't buying it, but she's polite enough not to question me further. "Yes, it is. A very glorious day. See you at lunch?"
&
nbsp; I grin and sail off the elevator, spinning back on the toes of my pumps and waving to her. "See you."
Mr. Ridgemont isn't in yet. I arrange his mail on his desk and slip the pink paper into the pile. Then, quickly, I seat myself at my own desk and get to work typing up the notes from the previous day's multiple meetings as I wait for my boss to arrive.
Chapter Six
Owen
"Amanda, tell me truthfully. Are you responsible for this?"
My secretary jerks upright in her chair. She was poring over her work so closely that my presence beside her didn't even register. "Mr. Ridgemont!" she yelps. I wince as she knocks her knees on the underside of her desk. It sounds like a cannon going off.
"You might want to go easy on the coffee, Amanda. Just because I drink a pot a day doesn't mean you have to keep up."
I hold up one of the chocolate chip cookies I discovered in the fifth-floor kitchen, and she exhales audibly.
"Oh, that. Yes. I'm something of a nervous baker," she admits. She tucks a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. I notice she has a hard time making eye contact today, and I can't help feeling a strange stab of disappointment. Despite being behind dark-rimmed glasses, her eyes are quite lovely. She's stopped stammering in my presence to the point that we actually hold conversations now. The eye contact is still somewhat hit-or-miss, though, and appears harder for her in the morning.
Not that I make it a habit of marking my secretary's habits.
"Nervous?" I ask. "Don't be. One bite of these and you can do no wrong."
She flushes faintly. "I have been told my baking is magic." She pushes her glasses up her pert nose and graces me with a sweet and sincere smile.
"Consider me enchanted," I reply, not completely referring to her baked goods.
I tuck the cookie between my teeth, take the stack of files she hands me, and close myself in my office.
Again, my thoughts stray to Nicole. If Gabe knew the amount of brain space Nicole was starting to take up, he would do himself a favor and hire another consultant. She is living rent-free inside my head, and I have no one to blame but myself. It had started innocently enough. Asking her out on a date was the obvious move. I assumed she fit into the world I am now elevated enough to inhabit. She is the exact sort of woman a man like me should be dating.
Or at least I had thought so.
Soup kitchen? Really? I don't believe it for a second. I saw her only this morning with a Hermès bag. I held the elevator door for her on the way up, and she didn’t spare me so much as a glance. What game are you playing, Nicole Preston? Are we to go on pretending to be strangers while our wits battle it out on paper? There is no way that woman cares about feeding homeless people. I'd bet my bottom dollar she's never set foot in a soup kitchen. I just have to find the right bait on the hook to prove it.
I set my half-eaten cookie down and push my files aside. "I don't intend to lose this little game, Nicole," I mumble as I write. I didn't become a self-made billionaire by being a pushover.
What you read is true. I come from humble beginnings. I believe that relying on handouts can cripple a person and keep them from pulling themselves up by their own bootstraps.
It is for this reason that I will not be making a donation to St. Christine's Shelter.
I am certain the shelter will find the means it needs to continue forward with its services without my donation.
Owen
I chuckle aloud as I read it. It ought to provoke a heated response, but will it be enough? My aim is to trigger the shallowness I know she's all about, the side of her that would rather be at the spa or playing tennis at the country club, or sipping champagne in a VIP section somewhere—anything but volunteering to help those less fortunate.
Will the real Nicole Preston please stand up?
I think on it for a moment and then add:
P.S. Other than spending your time volunteering at a soup kitchen, and working at Sway International, what else do you do in your free time? How do you unwind?
I sit back, uncertain of my own motivations. Why did I write that postscript? My original sign off would have been the perfect, abrupt way to end—not so much a simple toss, but a slam dunk back on Nicole's side of the court. She had exposed a vulnerability. I, in turn, had indicated a cold strength. In the business world, I would have considered my opponent bested.
But an air of finality won't do. Not yet. I intend to win this game, but that doesn't mean letting victory come in the first or second round. Why not get to know this enigmatic woman just a little bit better? No harm, no foul. I'm enjoying this too much. And as soon as the memos die off, I'll dive back into the dating scene and resume my hunt for a wife.
Amanda
As I read the latest memo in the bathroom stall of the ladies' room of Sway International, my heart sinks to my toes. Mr. Ridgemont has chosen not to donate to St. Christine's. Well, that certainly is his prerogative, but what incenses me to tears is his reasoning.
Mr. High-and-Mighty Ridgemont seems to think that people without boots should be able to pull themselves up by bootstraps! I'm so mad when I think about all the struggling people down at the shelter who have been chewed up and spit out by life. People who keep going simply because of St. Christine's and the momentary respite from their struggles that the shelter gives them. Soon, those poor souls will have nowhere to go. Sheesh, talk about arrogant egomaniacs.
I wipe my eyes and, with a trembling hand, fold the memo and shove it back into the bottom of my purse. I had planned to stay and work beyond four o'clock to get a few things prepped for the next day, but after reading the memo, I feel defeated and can't wait to leave Sway International for the evening.
What did I honestly expect from him?
More.
I may as well admit it to myself. I expected more from Owen Ridgemont. I could have sworn I'd seen the hint of a heart start to peek through during our interactions. Sadly, I was mistaken. To whom is he more likely to show his true colors? Nicole, who shares his social orbit? Or me, his secretary?
"Bootstraps," I mutter scathingly. I blow my nose for the last time, crumple the tissue, and hurl it into the bin on my way out. "Who even talks that way? Bootstraps—"
"Amanda? What's the matter?"
Owen is hovering by my desk when I return, two refreshed mugs of steaming hot coffee in his hands.
I have to laugh as I make another quick swipe beneath my eyes. "What are you, my secretary?" Hopefully I can distract him long enough to reorder my face. His brows are furrowed in an expression I've never seen him wear before. If I didn't know him better—haven't just gotten a glimpse of the true vacancy that lives within his chest—I would say that he actually looks concerned about me.
At my comment, though, Owen's crooked smile returns. "Cream or sugar, Miss King?"
"Wow. You actually got my name right today."
"Have I been getting it wrong?"
I smile as I settle back into my chair. "Don't worry about it. Thanks for the coffee. I'm definitely going to need it today."
"You work hard." Owen's eyes alight on me in momentary admiration. "I admire that. Just don't do it to the point of exhaustion. Then you won't be useful to anybody."
"I live to be useful," I mutter under my breath as he turns away. I half expect him to ruffle my hair on his way out like I'm a faithful dog he's finally decided to spoil. Someone's in a good mood.
As soon as he's back in his office, I open my purse. I stare at the pad of rose-scented stationery tucked discreetly in the side pocket. I desperately want Nicole's tart reply to come to him now, but the risk of writing one here is too great. Besides, maybe I should wait until I cool off first...or dry out, as the case may be. I sniff angrily.
Honestly, what did I expect from someone so rich? What does a billionaire like Owen Ridgemont owe the people of St. Christine's? He wouldn't even know of its existence if Nicole hadn't brought it up.
* * *
As I stumble down the steps of the subway st
ation, I'm having a hard time focusing. Even though I feel as though I've failed them, I go straight to the shelter. With a few extra hours on my hands, I decide that at least I'll keep my promise and put in some added volunteer time.
"Hi, sweetie. I didn't know you were working tonight." Mary's voice is light and her mood bright, as usual.
"I'm not. I was in the area and had some unexpected free time." I extract a small bundle from my bag. "I grabbed the mail from the box."
"Thank you, Mandy. You didn't have to come in. You should be out enjoying yourself. You're young. Go out on a date or something. Pretty thing like you shouldn't be here washing dishes every night."
I scowl and grab the rubber gloves next to the sink. "I don't have anyone to date. Besides, I enjoy the company here." I wink across the room at Sam who is not so subtly eavesdropping. Mary takes the mail and begins to sort through it. I watch her facial expression begin to fall as she views bill after bill.
At that very moment, a young man dressed in a courier's uniform arrives. Mary and I both eye him questioningly.
"I've got a letter, here," he says. "I just need an administrator to sign for it."
Mary lifts her eyes and shoots me an inquisitive look. "Okaaay," she drawls out. When she extracts a check from the plain envelope, she wobbles and I have to grab her elbow to support her. Her mouth is making noise, but she isn't making any sense.
"Mary? What is it?"
"A donation," she whispers as tears roll down her cheeks. "A really big one."
I quickly snatch it out of her hand and blink once, hard, to ensure I'm not seeing double…or sextuple, as it may be.
"Who sent this?" I demand of the startled courier, who looks like he's uncertain if he's just accidentally delivered to a madhouse.